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Yenson Jul 2018
A while ago in East London, in an area called Poplar
a black man lived with his wife
Quiet, hardworking, law-abiding they both were.
never courted a scandal, never committed a crime
Just went about their business, working for  better tomorrows

Then next door a Scottish family of five moved in
and immediately started borrowing from couple next door
Do you have sugar, do you have bread, can I borrow a fiver
till our Giro arrives next week, please another tenner for Jim
He has to pay a fine.

Empty beer cans littered their doorway, they all drank like fish
fights and arguments rang late into the night
Police visited twice, thrice weekly and it was known Jim burgled.
and was always doing time, when not drunk and fighting
Joan eldest girl was pregnant at sixteen and Tom fourteen had
done two stretches in juvenile detention
Last daughter Kelly was also to end up in the duff at sixteen

Amounts borrowed was now sizable, the odd fiver repaid
stolen items regularly offered and rejected by quiet couple next door
Invites to the black man to visit while Jim in jail politely declined
Come and have a drink with me and my young daughters
No thanks, got to go and cook, my Mrs would be returning soon.

The family from hell has turned the neighborhood to hell
constant break-ins all around
strange men coming and going, fights and noise, beer cans
for carpets, stairwells reeking of ****, Tom and friends and
Marijuana fumes graced the stairs and veranda.
Mrs Scottish and two young daughters constant smiling invitations
to black man next door, duly always deftly rejected.

Black man and Mrs decided to stop lending money
it was all going on beer and smoke and never paid back
By the end of the week, their car had been vandalized and four
wheels removed, racist leaflets started appearing on veranda.
No more smiling coyly invites, now just loud music and loud
intermittent bangs on walls from next door.
We must complain, we most report all this to the Landlords.
No, lets just ignore them, not worth the hassle.

Then it happened, black man arrives home one afternoon
and finds his front door ajar, they had been burgled.
Seething with anger he stormed next door to be met by Mrs S
'you ******* thieves have robbed me, how can you be so low,
after all we've done to try and help you. None of you work, You are a bunch of lazy
workshy, welfare scroungers, you are pathetic lowlife. why don't you go and get a job instead of burgling houses and getting drunk all day long
I will start a petition to move you away from the neighborhood.
You no-good non working class scums'  a disgrace and an affront to the hardworking working classes. You ******* racist bullies, I will show you, you can't
mess with me'

Mrs S smiled wickedly and said, you will see
'character assassination, public humiliation, we'll ruin your life and you'd wish you are dead by the time we finish with you and your chicken legs wife. I will show you who runs the manor in East London.'
You can't do that, black man replied, I have done nothing wrong, you are the bare-faced thieves, you shameless woman. We have had enough of you and your anti-social behaviour. You are not going to mess with us no more!

OH, YES! they can and by jove, they did.
Mrs S retorted' You are the foreigner here, you are the one that would be leaving the country
and going back to your Jungle'.
Black man called wife to tell her, she came home immediately
the police came, no evidence, here's a crime report, get your door
fixed. How about searching next door, we can't, no witnesses.
And then Black man's life changed FOREVER.

Should I write about the intimidation from other white families
in the neighborhood, should I write about how the Local Socialist
Party got involved, and launched a propaganda campaign about a black Conservative member dissing the Working Classes,  should I write about how one of his beloved dogs was
killed, should I write about a rumour campaign that black man was a wife-beater, a ****, a con man, a greedy parasite, should I write about sudden hostilities and bullying at his work place, how his wife was also sacked, about being randomly insulted and abused in the streets, about kids spitting on him, about being shunned inexplicably by locals
he's known for years. Should I write about outrageous fabrication, smears and humiliation.
Should I write about political victimization, about the black man 'who thinks he is better than us all,' about how a wedge was driven between him and his wife, till she broke and upped and left without warning,
should I write about how strangers shouted 'solidarity with the working Class' at him, should I write about daily torments and constant harassment everywhere he goes, should I write about Criminal gang stalking,
should I write about being informed they were going to ruin his career, ruin his marriage and ruin his reputation, check, all done. S I write about how they said they were going to chuck mud at him everywhere he went and blacken his name forever, should i write about pure isolation, about being made a target and being  hounded and stalked and disrespected everywhere. Should I write about how they stated they were going to drive him insane and drive him to suicide.

If so, WE WILL BE HERE ALL DAY.
Just  know that somewhere in London, a decent, law-abiding progressive, and innocent black man, is now on his own, broke, in debts and on Welfare benefits, unable to find a job, friendless and isolated, discredited and shunned.  He is still being stalked, harassed and hounded, round the clock. All for daring to stand up to CRIMINALS.

IS THERE JUSTICE IN THE WORLD?
IS THIS WHAT ENGLAND HAS BECOME?
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.


Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.


The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.


The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.
Nigel Lloyd May 2015
Thin and crispy, round and flat
A staple of the proletariat
Two for a tenner
It makes you wonder
And delivered to your door on the back of a Honda.
Pete Marshall Feb 2010
Sunk in my armchairI stare from the gloomThe never-ending soundOf cars that drift onWith minds on the roadAnd eyes straight aheadCash register for mileageChing ching in their head-If stripped of the clothingAre we all just the sameWe want to be themTo be part of this gameAnd the cars that drift onWith their badges of wealthThese tokens of greatnessMuch better than mine-Once I was partOf this greed that we wantBut now I am nothingSomeone that just hopesMy boys birthdays comingHow much would it costTo bring smiles to his faceWithout knowing the lossYet who will sufferAs my daughter is nextAnd kids have no boundariesWhen friends have the best-And people with moneyNow scorn on my lifeTo some I’m a scroungerWhilst dodging tax with their perksThose LLP peopleWho employ mystery wivesAnd lie on their tax billsTo hoard cash for their lives-A tenner for cleaningAn old boys flatBuys cake for my kidsAs a one off treatYet who is more guiltyOf conning the stateAs I sit in my armchairAnd cars drive on past
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
Bridget the ******,
the dwarf who loves *******;
Bridget the ******,
she comes when she's *******.

She'll open her short legs
for a tenner or so,
and if you pay less
she'll still have a go.

She loves a good *******,
both active and passive;
Believe me, her botty
-hole is quite massive.

Bridget's a goer,
always ready for more;
She's a fat ugly ******
and a little fat *****.
Words…..because words are all I have……..:) Edgar
endearments generosity incantatory new sagacity surprise heresy dissipation violating abyss language warning culminates dalack obdurate serving waiter ossuary occurrences tortured beware silence calm bow physiognomy paucity occurrence exegeses transmogrification effectuation Adjunctive dairy tenure contention tenner reins happy indomitable, connoisseur artifice concatenation vivacity voluptuous solemnity enigmatic burdened glorious line huge……………………some I made myself…..:) Edgar
andy fardell May 2012
I want to win the lotto
I want to win some dosh
I'm fed up of no money
I want to win the lot

I do all of me numbers each and every week
I'm lucky if a tenner comes falling at me feet
they say its one in lots and lots but I don't really care
cos all i want to say to you is I'm a millionaire  

been saying this for so long now my mates think I'm all mad
this time its gonna be my night... I am the lucky lad
so when you see some flash new car go zipping by your eyes
you'll know the person in it its me with fortune pie

Ill share all of my wealth with friends and family from afar
a charity so close to me a tear that breaks my heart
a set up for a life of good and free of bills to pay
a golden ticket full of dreams today that is my day
Ray Miller Mar 2016
I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.

“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.

Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.

In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******,
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.
ns ezra Feb 2013
so i go searching charity shops because
i forgot to bring a book today and
i want to get something to eat in a momen
because i am hungry
because i have not eaten anything yet today
because i forgot i am a flesh-and-blood thing
but i want to sit down somewhere to eat
which is something i do not like to do without either
1: the company of a book or
2: another living being of some sort
(one who will not make small talk
or touch my hands or think i matter)
since these are both fairly good excuses
not to make eye contact—even unintentional—
with anyone who happens to be around you
which is something i do not like doing
as every time without fail it makes me feel
a little nauseous, just a little
There are two major measures of eye irritation.
One is blink frequency which can be observed by human behavior.
The other measures are break up time, tear flow, hyperemia
(redness, swelling), tear fluid cytology,
and epithelial damage (vital stains) etc.,
which are human beings’ physiological reactions.
Blink frequency is defined as the number
of blinks per minute and it is associated
with eye irritation. Blink frequencies are individual
with mean frequencies of < 2-3 to 20-30 blinks/minute,
and they depend on environmental factors
including the use of contact lenses


i settle on a three-book set of stephen king
and i read the first thirty pages of "the girl who loved tom gordon"
sitting in a cafe between very slight interspersions of rain-watching
and i manage to avoid looking quite directly at anyone,
even the waitress,
which i am proud of myself for
in a small sad sort of way
but then i get up and i go to the restroom
and i spend several seconds deliberating
over whether to use the womens or the mens
because i am a liar either way
but i settle for womens just like i settled for king
and when i walk in there is a lady there
washing her hands at the sink
and we meet eyes for a moment
before i flee into a stall and, sitting on the toilet,
knees drawn up and tense,
holding my head in my hands,
burst promptly
into tears

i leave and i stop at the counter to pay the bill
which i almost forgot
and i find i have change, yes,
i have exact change, precise.
i worry about the chance of this
for five minutes after i leave;
i stand in the street and i find the rain has gone off,
but it hasn’t,
so i stand there holding in my hand
an unused £10 note that is verging on soggy
and i worry about whether that is okay
and then i go to sainsburys
and i buy tea and chocolate
just to get rid of that ******* ten pound note
that my gran gave me yesterday
that has a pen mark on it
that my granddad was almost certainly responsible for
(which does not make me cry but
does make me clench my fist very strangely
for a moment feeling embittered
towards this self-service checkout
that i am going to hand this tenner over to
knowing it will be eating up something
that reminds me of the way my granddad smelt
and the way he sort of hurt to be held by
because he was so odd and bony and my face
could never rest quite right on his shoulders for it,
and i do not know whether this is
a bad thing or a good thing i am doing, here)
and i almost buy bread too
but there are too many people in that aisle
so i do not

i go home and i read on the internet
about piercing one’s ears at home
and then i almost buy a suturing kit
from a medical supplies website
for a dog that i really like
and i get changed out of that jumper
into a shirt, finally
but now it is too cool rather than too warm
so then i just end up
taking all of my clothes off entirely
and crying naked
under the bedsheets
like a coffin-baby
because the world just won’t stop for me
and i really
really
should have bought some bread
Kyle Williams Apr 2012
Maybe there are other people like us,
scraping £2.50 to get the night bus.
Requiring time,
but never a sign of love lost.

So when I wake up,
I look for the nearest shake up.
Wiping off your girlfriends make up,
because nothing will ever stop us.
Sending penetrating shivers,
an ecstasy like gold rush.

Back to sipping Hennessey,
making the girls blush but there ain’t no fuss,
‘coz the girls lost coming at a big cost,
as I plan the beginning the end and sub-plot.
Daym this girls hot but she don’t like ***,
if I don’t deliver man get shot.
Left 6ft under to rot, while my babies crying in her cot,
something the government planned,
straight to the source of another blood clot.

Unbelievable feeling’s that came from us,
but nothing was going to stop that bus
so don’t cause a fuss, head up and believe in trust.
If you could see me now, then you’d understand
two bags short of tenner, another pocket with ten grand.
Thinking about street corners, the place where it started,
going way back now, before my mother departed.
Family distraught, the horizon broken hearted.

Taking into account, the past and what’s it done,
I must face the consequences and what’s ahead to come.
It isn’t going to be fun, but I can’t turn and run,
believe in fate so the future doesn’t appear glum.
Then we call a peace treaty, and lay down our gun.
A Mareship Sep 2013
1.  Understand Weather.

(Strangers on a bench,
Looking up.)

“Cirrus, I think.
Cirrocumulus?”
“Stratus surely.
Or altocumulus.”

(You must also hate the cold
And the sun,
And always wish the current season
Was a different one.)


2. Never Be Honest About Stuff That Hurts.

Pain so bad
Can’t even **** –
“How are you, Arthur?”
“Brilliant, thanks!”

3. Have An Opinion On These People

Katie Price (Feminist? Witch?)
Kate Moss (Goddess? *****?)
Stephen Fry (Snob? Wilde?)
Frankie Boyle (Offensive? Mild?)

4. Never Talk About Money.

“So.” An American asks. “How much do ya make?”
“I…I…Oh My God look at that dog over there that has a face like a pancake!”

5. Learn How To Apply The Class System To Cigarettes.

Pipe – Monty Withnail
Silk Cut – Comfortably Middle.
Lucky Strikes – Probably not British.
B&H; – Shops at Lidl.

6. Secretly (Or Openly) Enjoy The Royal Family

“So, did you hear what they called the baby?”
My boyfriend shrugs and says -
“I don’t give one tiny ****.”
“They named him George. Isn’t that twee?”
“Aw ******* hell, I had a tenner on Louis!”

7. Hey Jude.

If all else fails,
At the end of the night,
Sing na-na-na
And it’ll be alright.

8. Never Complain About Your Meal

“Hm. These mussels look a bit suspect.”
“How’s your meal, Sir?”
“Perfect!”

9. Always Hate The French, (Even If Your Own Mother Is French)

Numberplate 'F'
On an articulated lorry.
“Stuck up…onion…*******.”
(I’m sorry mum, I’m so sorry!)

10. ‘Jerusalem’

Mime a sword in your hand,
Bang your chest with devotion,
Wave the sword about,
Sing with emotion.
All in jest.
(my bf smokes B&H; and before giving me one always says ' these are real man's ****. Feel it hit you? Yeah? REAL MAN'S ****.')
(I also understand that in America the term 'real man's ****' means something entirely different.)
chitragupta Jul 2019
I remember walking back from school
the tenner for the bus ride in my pocket
There would be a row over why I had taken so long
But I'd gulp the sondesh down, and it'd be forgotten

The grey haired proprietor of the sweetmeat store
wore a perennial smile on his face
And sometimes I wondered if he had ever been sad
How could he with those sweets on his silver trays?

I learned to grasp the concept of gravity
when a piece of sweetmeat went down my throat
And then a lesson on quick mathematics
when the shopkeeper stretched his palm for what I owed

But sadly the chemistry book had no formula for me
to turn sugar and milk to that special treat
The report card was skewed, and the scolding that ensued
Was only remediated by my favourite sweet
Throwback to college days when I used to miss home :(

My love for sweets hasn't faded all this time
I'll just cross my fingers and hope you like this rhyme
Jack Quinn Jun 2020
Rubber soled trainers broke the brick
Like the boom of the people tether the streets
Tight strapped caps wander and roam
Strolling the daylight for a place of their own

Screeching and whirring filling the room
Monoxide smog frogs that cling to their moulds
We the people; hardened in soul
A splash in the distance tearing a hole

Enoch and Edna turn in their grave
Darkened cobble flattened; all glazed
Mirrors and cladding click into place
A village that weeps, constant refined

Express the formidable now done and alone
Never your own
EST marks the alleys; so nuanced, so cool
If you knew the truth; that's a tenner!
You fool
How to make friends over a beer
How to make any modest room beautiful with fairy lights
How to consecutively loose three university ID cards, replace them and then simultaneously find all three misplaced cards in the bottom of the same bag.
How to blag your way onto the university bus without ID
How to make a family out of your friends


When to give constructive criticism.
When to hit the cafeteria for discounted lunch items
When to let house mates off for making the kitchen a **** tip
When to realise that the reason your soreen cake keeps going missing from you food cupboard is not in fact because there are some soreen cake loving mice,  it is in fact just your house mate  who “just thought you weren’t going to eat it”
When to plant an onion in hopes of an onion tree.


Where to kick a corrugated door for a taxi
Where to get the best tray of jalapeños
Where to get a magic tenner
Where to sit in the lecture hall so you could only be partially seen
Where to find your confidence
Knowing I’ll never be able to pay off my university debt
But knowing it was priceless
Simon Soane Mar 2017
There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!
SQUID Aug 2017
- Can't work out whose this is.
- I don't know either.
  But if it's yours..
  Dinner's on you.
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
A flower girl tried to sell me a flower
picked from my own garden
a thin starving guttersnipe dressed so dour
my seldom emphatic heart granted my pardon

I gave her a tenner for the red rose
and told her to "keep the change"
she, now the subject of my next poetic prose
about the girl who makes my heart feel strange
Edward Coles May 2014
Take the pavement into town,
over bridges, galleries and pain exhibits.
Sip beer on your own;
a bottle into the half glass,
before sinking into that spectator's chair.

Slip a tenner to the homeless man.
You don't know why,
but his face felt like wisdom.
You take off your jacket in the sun,
beneath the underpass as notebooks
pound together in your black messenger bag.

Take a fantasy to heart,
collect images of her and her soft music.
Allow the melodies their art.
Their art of fogging reality,
of allowing one to appear as they are not.

Keep you thoughts on the banister,
safe from the fall of pleading into old dreams.
Wilt before the kaleidoscope
of all adopted memories,
the time you bathed Christ beside Olympus Mons.

Ride the ghost train to the present,
past the infidels and terrorists of truth.
Never fear that fear of consequence,
of tomorrows lived in yesterdays,
of appreciating life,
yet forgetting to live.
c
RJP Sep 2018
Im dressed in rags but I'm made of riches, promise
I'm the insurance man, a timetabler
Wake me from my slumber,
I'll give you a tenner, doctor, mother,
Double pain relief, those blasted tablets
****** liqueur sent me to sleep.
Chemically numbing,
My dad's never hugged me you know
Old time copper threw me
In the lock-up for stealing liquor.

I'm the self fulling prophecy
Hoping for childish deliverance

Some like it hot I like it cold like a copper coin dropped into my pocket.
O’ world curious traveller,
Atop the Millenium bridge,
I know St Paul’s is so beautiful,
But try and keep an eye on your kids.

O’ delicious corona,
You look so divine, I’ll admit.
But why are you a whole ******* tenner?!
Are these guys all *******?!

O’ lost Northern bumbler,
Trying ‘down saaaaaath’ for a bit,
Stop standing to the left of the escalator,
You're destroying the system you *****.

O’ impatient young cycler,
Dressed in tight lycra and ****,
You’re going to try and squeeze through those buses?
You’re a ******* for thinking you’ll fit.

O’ excited tube takers,
Your theatrical energy is lit,
But please stop singing in unison,
All should be silent this trip.

To live in this concrete jungle,
You’ll pay extortionate rent for a pit,
But at least you’ll be living the high-life,
Oh wait? I’m poor. And depressed.
The year. 1562. The place. Fort. Caroline. , We. Have found in the Americas. a dry herb
With cane and earthen cup , they smoke it through the cane thereof .

September. 2016 .
Dear. Doctor. ,
I. Think I'm. a. chimney. ,
my lungs stacked high with bricks,
With N H S. guide lines  full of ***** tricks. .
Weened from inside my mothers womb ,
the sweet smell of nicotine my mothers. Perfume .
How it smelt from inside my Pram  mother and I went a. Shopping .
Then from the back of our car ,
as we drove far ,
that. Smell with Windows. ajar. ,
from the back of our car .
How I. Looked up to. Father. ,
When we went to the shops ,
*** in hand ,  
One day  I'll  be a man ,
With *** in hand like he .
Hanging outside Londis ,
talking to strangers. ,
A. Packet. For a. Tenner for me ?

Dear. Doctor.
                      I. Think. I'm. a. Steam train ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough. Phlegm. ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough.  Phlegm .
...........
Now I. Have my N H S. Bed. With family all around ,
My  C O J D. breathing ap at my side .

My. Coughing  a. Coffin  now ,
I'm. Early for my funeral
Friends and  family. all. around .
". he liked his Cigarettes. "
". Long time dead
Could have been knocked down by a bus " they said .
Coughing. , coughing , coffin .  











,
Спорти́вная
- My first thought is how clean the place is,
how swanky, perhaps that’s the right word.
- This isn’t London or New York that’s for sure,
marble walls that could be made from banoffee pie,
blue and white quadrats for the floor,
patchwork of tiles making up the ceiling.
- Eight hundred rubles for a week, barely a tenner,
Moscow’s take on the Oyster, just cheaper.
- My mate of fifteen years has Henderson on the back,
I’ve come as myself.

- A crew of fans gush out behind us,
- flags made into capes.
- Two own beards, great hedgehog-type beards
taking over, stippled ginger,
another has a drooped trophy slapped on a cheek.
- They are already singing, if you can call it that,
adding that extra syllable, a staple of the patriotic chant,
IN-GUR-LAND.
- The Croatians in their classic tablecloth-type tops,
 (Modrić x2 and Mandžukić x1)
look aghast, probably whisper their own version of plonkers.
- Congested, headache already brewing,
needing fresh air before the Mexican wave.

- Лужники
- My first thought
is that the view isn’t actually that bad.
- We’re fairly high up, middle row,
sandwiched between Brian from Bolton
and a foul-mouthed Mike
from Welwyn-Garden-City, I think,
but I’m getting into the spirit,
my mate already shuttlecocking half-xenophobic jibes
across the pitch, a paper aeroplane or two
gliding, colliding into backs of seats.
- Anthem is maudlin, Croatia’s more jaunty,
and then the players are moving like felt-tipped beetles
across the tongue of grass.

- The free-kick goes in after a while,
cheers a chorus of roars
that zip into the cold Russian air.
- Strangers shoulder-shove, voices sandpaper coarse,
that blasted tune ringing out
from the mouths of a raucous English bunch
in many an old Umbro kit
swamped with sweat and blots of beer.
- My mate can’t believe it, he’s got a tenner
on 2-1 to us, a modest bet.
- Mike from Letchworth Garden City
is bellowing out the scorer’s name
each word croakier than the last,
one hand crushing the lions on his chest.

- дополнительное время
- Our first thought is that penalties
are coming up, our foe, our football swine,
but on 109’, the guy from the back
of that earlier guy’s shirt flicks out a limb,
pokes the ball past our keeper.
- Mate goes ballistic, his face
on the brink of full-blown beetroot,
while Brian from Bolton appears mid-coronary,
too whacked to crank out a sigh.
- A bloke to the right, a few rows down
jokingly mentions Hurst.
- This brand of heartbreak we know well.

- Later, surrounded by smokers named Dmitri,
shots of Smirnoff and the dull ache of knowing
four hours back to Heathrow awaits,
we’ll reflect on the could’ve-beens.
- Mid-sloshed in Red Square, more my mate than me,
(he’s a tenner down after all),
mumbling Qatar in four years under our breaths
while Croatians tumble through
this giant cyst of a city.
NOTE: Each second stanza is supposed to be indented from the right hand side of the page. HP has altered the format again.
Written: 2018/19.
Explanation: A poem that was part of my MFA Creative Writing manuscript, in which I wrote poems about cities that have staged the Eurovision Song Contest, or taken the name of a song and written my own piece inspired by the title. I have received a mark for this body of work now, so am sharing the poems here.

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